


If Anything I'm Restless

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brief mentions of a threesome, Crying Harry Styles, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Risky Sexual Behavior, Summertime Sadness, Time Skips, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Zayn have one last summer to make it all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Anything I'm Restless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisonegoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/gifts).



> Thank you to everyone who read a piece of or this entire story, from my standby betas [Emily](http://hipsterkidult.tumblr.com/) and [Fee](http://singlezouis.tumblr.com/), to [Julia](http://queenthirdward.tumblr.com/) and [Crystal](http://mindizmyspear.tumblr.com/). You are all super amazing. Thanks, also, to [Charlotte](https://twitter.com/lostsneeze) for prompting one of the sex scenes. 
> 
> Reminding you again to heed the warnings. This story was the weird result of discontent, a Summertime Sadness playlist, and Excedrin. 
> 
> I hope you don't hate this, Grace! Was gonna wait a few more days to post but today seemed right. *Shrug*
> 
> Title from Tove Lo's "Habits."

_You're gone and I gotta stay_

_High all the time_

_To keep you off my mind_

– Tove Lo, Habits

 

Harry knew that he should have more to say. After so many years, so many adventures and mistakes, after the life Harry had hoped they would build together, Harry should have something comforting, something substantial to say to Zayn. But Harry didn't. All he had was “I'm sorry” and that wasn't even true. Because if Zayn hadn't recently gone through a divorce, twenty-two and hardened beyond his years, if Zayn hadn't lost it all, dreams of what-could've-been's crushed under stiletto heels, he wouldn't have even contemplated coming to stay with Harry and the other boys in Harry's parent's second home in Mendocino for a week this summer. Happily married men don't go out with old high school friends. Happily married men most certainly don't put themselves in awkward positions with exes, either. But Zayn was miserable and divorced, and Harry shouldn't have wanted to take advantage. Harry felt awful for thinking it, but Harry deserved a little slice of happiness, no matter how he came across it.

Harry used to hate his parents' place in Mendocino County. The thing most people don't entirely understand about California is that it's huge, and Northern California in particular is its own special circle of hell, full of nothing but fucking trees, and decidedly boring, what with all of the conservative people and the only recreational options being nature-based – hiking, fishing, rafting, or shooting shit. Harry couldn't help it that he was a city boy, that he loved hustle and bustle, checking out new restaurants and art showings and beer gardens, people coming and going and only occasionally intersecting. It was why he had gone off to New York for college, somewhere he could fucking _breathe_ , why even now San Francisco just felt too small, too constricting.

But Harry was back in California for the summer, the first time since he left for the city almost three years ago. Not like it wouldn't have been easy for Harry to come back home whenever – he had grown up with money and his parents loved spoiling him – it was just that Harry couldn't even deal with coming home every fucking summer to the realization that life had gone on without him. That Louis and Eleanor, who everyone expected would go on to get married and have kids, had broken up after Valentine's Day. That Liam, one of his best friends in high school, was probably going to end up staying in Seattle after graduation, thousands of miles away. And even Niall – Niall who was probably one of the smartest people Harry knew, in a quiet and not entirely linear way – now had a kid with this girl he had met in Los Angeles. And those were just a list of some of the tinier changes.

Harry wanted to see everyone now that he was back home, wanted to spend time with his boys before he made his own big changes. So Harry invited the old crew out to Mendocino, Harry and Niall driving together, stopping only for gas and groceries, and the other boys coming up a few hours later, Louis' Dodge Charger loaded up with backpacks of clothes and booze. It was a warm night in June, the air still and quiet, and Harry sat alone on the front porch of his parents' house and wished upon a star as his friends started up a round of beer pong inside, wishing for things that could never come true, for alternatives that had long been off the table.

It was peaceful, hot air making his neck sticky as he looked out at the woods from his porch, and Harry was alone when he began cutting lines, balancing his white on a Bible he had found in the living room earlier. And that was how Zayn found Harry, pinky in his mouth and pupils blown wide, looking that every inch of seventeen that had gotten them in trouble in the first place. And Harry had absolutely _nothing_ to say to Zayn.

 

When Harry was seventeen, he was naïve and trusting. He wanted everyone to like him, wanted everyone to be his friend. And people were – he hung out with the popular crowd, went to parties and tried the weird concoctions people handed to him in full red cups, accepted the pills placed on pretty girls' tongues. He just wanted to know that he was partaking in all that life had to offer, couldn't say “no” to anything.

But Harry didn't meet Zayn at a party. Their eyes didn't lock across a crowded room, Zayn didn't escort Harry to a bedroom that wasn't theirs or ask Harry to get on his knees in some dirty bathroom. For as much as parties and dirty bathrooms became a part of their story, that wasn't how it all began.

Harry met Zayn at the public library. Harry had been at the Marina branch, hanging out in the teen section after meeting his dealer outside of Patxi's Chicago Pizza on Fillmore. Harry didn't want to go home quite yet, had been attempting to do some Calculus homework but was mostly just looking through old magazines, hands listless as he turned pages and hummed along to his iPod, volume low so he wouldn't disturb the other patrons around him. Harry just happened to glance up as he heard a door open and Zayn was just – _God_ . It would've been just as well, had they met at a party, if their eyes had locked across a crowded room. The magnetism was there, that indescribable pull, that locking hurt in Harry's chest that whispered, “Remember this moment.” Zayn was so beautiful, even then, even at eighteen, the type of attractiveness that made Harry equally jealous and aroused, face so painfully young, slick black hair perfectly styled into a quiff, golden brown skin that Harry wanted to see squirming underneath him. And his _eyes_ – hazel brown pools that Harry wanted to drown himself in, wanted to get lost in, only coming up for a dizzying breath of air when those eyes squeezed shut and his mouth gasped out Harry's name. Harry wanted it all even then, even the first time Harry saw Zayn in that fucking public library, proudly donning a letterman jacket, his backpack thrown over broad shoulders, fingers interlocked with an equally pretty little girl who could only be his baby sister.

Harry didn't know what Zayn thought the first time he saw Harry, though. Harry never asked, neither the afterglow of sex nor the liquor and the coke ever making him quite brave enough. But Zayn smiled, whispering something to his little sister and grinning fondly when she ran in between stacks of books. Zayn sat at a table a few yards away from Harry, pulling out Toni Morrison novels and humming, pleased, every time he noticed that Harry was still staring.

It was that pull – that indescribable thing that existed between the two of them – that gave Harry the courage to stand, pulling his earbuds out, collecting his books and coming to sit in front of Zayn.

“'M Harry,” Harry said, thrusting his hand out and counting it as a small victory when Zayn smirked at him, clasping Harry's hand with his own.

“Zayn,” Zayn answered. “You reading _Rolling Stone_?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, playing with the cover page. “Can't concentrate on my Calculus homework, so.”

“Could probably help you,” Zayn replied, face lighting up. “I'm taking Multivariable Calculus right now. It's easy once you get the hang of it. It's all just like, slightly harder puzzles, right?”

Harry blinked. Beautiful _and_ smart. This kid couldn't be real. This had to be some sort of hallucination, some weird, unintended consequence of the Addy he had crushed and snorted in the library bathroom to give him the boost needed to concentrate. “Where do you go to school? Galileo?”

“Nah, UHS,” Zayn answered. And now that Harry looked, he could make out the school logo on Zayn's jacket.

“Oh, cool. I'm at Lick.”

“Rich boy, are you?” Zayn asked around another sly grin.

“Maybe,” Harry answered, equally sly. “Could ask the same about you, though.”

“I'm on scholarship,” Zayn replied. “Certainly not a rich boy.”

Harry hummed. “So a genius, then.”

Zayn tapped his fingers on the table, biting his lip. “Above average, maybe.” Even then, Harry was positive Zayn wasn't the cocky type. If he said it, it wasn't a boast – was probably just the truth.

“Nothing about you seems mediocre,” Harry said after a moment's pause, and Zayn laughed, red coloring high on his cheeks.

“Definitely thinking the same about you,” Zayn answered, voice catching low in his throat, and it sounded like such a come-on that Harry felt himself shiver.

“Help me with my homework and maybe you can find out,” Harry said, barely refraining from throwing in a cheesy wink. Zayn nodded, smile spreading across his face and God, Harry was so, _so_ fucked.

And that's how it went – the two of them meeting every day after school at the Marina branch library for the first half of Harry's junior year, Zayn helping Harry with his math homework while Zayn's little sister read _To Kill A Mockingbird_ on the floor next to them. Harry wasn't sure what, if anything, Zayn was really getting out of the deal, but he was always eager enough, patient, funny, the best tutor. The gorgeous boy from UHS, Harry's own little secret, the reason why Harry was suddenly confident enough to volunteer to do problems on the board at school. Harry wanted to fuck Zayn so badly, would go home after their tutoring sessions, cock already heavy in his pants, and pump into his fist with Zayn's soothing voice ringing through his ears.

It was the type of relationship you can only have when you're seventeen – simple and easy, with someone so perfect and smart and beautiful that _of course_ you meet them when you're young, before you realize that nothing is perfect, that nobody can be your secret, that relationships aren't easy. And it was in December, when Harry realized that he couldn't keep doing this, that he needed to know what Zayn looked like outside of the library's walls, that he needed to know what Zayn looked like against his bedsheets at home, that the illusion shattered.

 

They probably should've talked, first. But Harry had forgotten what it was like to have a real conversation with Zayn, had forgotten what it was like to bare your soul and hope that the jagged little pieces of your heart were enough for someone to stick around. So handing Zayn the rolled up Benjamin felt like slipping back into the past, felt like jaunting back in time and watching Zayn do lines off Perrie's sweat-wet back, back when life was a party and they were in VIP, two stupid boys high off the world and high off each other. And even after, when Zayn had somehow ended up in Harry's lap, the blow creeping up on Harry until his high was just _right there_ – that was all familiar, too. Zayn's skin was tacky underneath Harry's palms, his shirt smelling like that expensive fucking cologne that always used to cling to Harry's sheets, afterward, and whiskey, and his words were loose, murmured, “I missed you” and “I missed _this_ ” and “Why didn't you ever call me?”

Harry wanted to say, “I missed you, too,” and “I tried to chase this, even without you, and it was never the same,” and “I did call, over and over, sent carrier pigeons into the wind because I didn't know any better,” but that would've been too much like having a real conversation, too much like baring his soul, nonsensical fundamentals, pretty words that made no sense strung together, and Harry wanted to ride this feeling, wanted to submerge into his high, like he was on top of an unsinkable ship with Zayn at his side. It felt like everything he wanted when he was seventeen, wishes on shooting stars, 11:11 dreams coming true four years too late. Harry was fucked up, though, so it didn't matter, nothing did except chasing that peak, that first high that roped him in and held him close. Time is a human construct anyway – hadn't Zayn said that once? Maybe Harry was remembering it wrong. Harry always remembered the most important things all wrong.

Harry let Zayn bite his neck, little pinpricks of pain-pleasure that sent his skin aflame, made him wonder where the summer heat ended and his body began, and Harry pretended as though he was stardust, as though he was iron, basic elements without anything to tie him down.

 

For their “first date”, Harry asked his parents for the car, picking Zayn up from his apartment on Fillmore because it was raining and Harry hated the idea of Zayn's hair getting fucked up from the moisture as he sat on Muni. Zayn refused to let Harry come up and see the place, though, muttering something about his parents not liking when the kids had people over when they were off at work, and Harry didn't push it, shrugging and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, ridiculously nervous even though they were both obviously into each other, stealing glances at each other and smiling shyly whenever they got caught, had been dancing around each other for months.

Harry took Zayn to a tapas spot on Steiner, telling Zayn, “Order whatever you want,” when Zayn's eyes bulged at the prices.

“Eight dollars for hummus,” Zayn answered, shaking his head. “It's a bit pricy, isn't it?”

“Don't worry about it,” Harry replied. “It's the least I could do, considering you're the reason I'm passing Calc this semester.”

“Didn't do that so you would take me out to a fancypants restaurant,” Zayn mumbled. “Did that cuz I wanted to.”

“Just like I'm not only taking you to a fancypants restaurant because you've helped me with Calc, yeah?” Harry countered. “I'm doing this because I like you and I wanna give you everything.” At seventeen, it might as well have been a motherfucking marriage proposal. It felt like it, at least, a huge moment between two kids pretending to be grownups at a restaurant with waiters who didn't check ID's so long as the credit card went through, Zayn blushing over the candle placed in the middle of their table.

“Trynna spoil me, Styles?” Zayn asked, biting his lip as his eyes gleamed.

“Maybe.”

“Think I'll put out after a good meal?” Zayn continued, a little meanly, shadows from the flickering candle long across his face.

“It's not that kind of thing.”

“Really?” Zayn pushed, sitting back in his seat and quirking an eyebrow.

“Really,” Harry answered. “I just want to give you nice things. Is that so wrong?”

“Don't want you to get the wrong idea of me, s'all,” Zayn replied. “I don't need saving. Don't need a hand out.”

“I never said you do.”

“Just don't wanna be a rich boy's project.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You aren't something for me to use and discard, Zayn. You're – God. Sometimes I feel like I dreamed you up because you're too good to be hanging out with someone like me.”

And _that_ might've been a declaration of everlasting love, as huge as it felt for Harry to be getting it off his chest. He meant every word, though.

Zayn looked up, their eyes catching. And Harry really knew then – he _did_ love Zayn. Was in love with him, in that stupid, blinding way that kids do. But Harry also knew that Zayn didn't love him back.

Harry was young, so he thought that was okay – that it hurt right now, but it wasn't a permanent thing, this ache. That he could make Zayn love him through sheer will, through determination and stubbornness and good intentions. That even when he took Zayn back to his house, waving at his parents before shooing Zayn into his bedroom, locking the door and turning on Justin Bieber because he remembered Zayn saying once that he really liked his album, that Harry could definitely make Zayn fall in love with him over the next few months, before Zayn went away for college. That's how it worked – you just threw your all into it with someone and the universe would reward you for your efforts. Good in, good out. Harry even thought that Zayn taking off his shirt before slinking to his knees in front of Harry – Harry thought that meant Zayn could love him, too, because Harry was still naïve enough to believe that sex and love were almost always overlapping circles.

Looking back on it, Harry couldn't believe that he could be so, _so_ dumb. Careless with his heart, and so dumb.

 

Harry was already coming down off his high, could feel the incoming crash around his eyelids, when Zayn took him to bed. There were enough rooms in the house for everyone to have their own, but Harry still ended up in Zayn's, face shoved into a pillow as Zayn's fingers crooked inside of him.

They still hadn't talked – Harry wasn't even sure if he was capable of forming coherent sentences anymore, had pretty much given up on being intelligible the more drugs he jammed into his system. It was hard to talk when you were fucked out of your mind 98% of the day, and Harry could hardly function without a bump – probably wasn't even functioning at all anymore. The only real thing Zayn had said so far, besides, “Face down, ass up, Styles,” besides the sweet nothings, the half-truths he had whispered into Harry's ear on the porch, had been a sad, “You didn't say 'Hi' to me when we drove up.” Which, of course Harry hadn't. Harry had taken a bump the minute he saw Louis' car pull up into the driveway, shutting himself in his room and taking a shower until his skin felt as raw and used as his insides.

What was there to even say anymore? Zayn couldn't even call him by his first name, and Harry couldn't look at Zayn sober. They were both fucked.

Well, Harry was probably more so. Literally and figuratively, as Zayn ripped open the condom, rolling it over himself and pushing in, gushing over how tight Harry was as he gripped Harry's hips with fingers slick with lube. Harry buried his face into the crook of his elbow, grunting as he felt every centimeter of Zayn's cock, breathing in steadily so Zayn wouldn't know that he was crying. He really needed to stop having sex when he was coming down. He always got weepy and people tended to freak out when their partner was crying while getting fucked, for good reason, really. It wasn't like it didn't feel good, like Harry didn't want this with every fucking cell in his body – it did, it felt perfect, the closest thing someone as miserable as Harry had to being a happy person, maybe, Zayn establishing a smooth, deep rhythm, his balls slapping against Harry with each thrust. Harry's own cock was heavy in between his legs, but Harry was too lazy and punch drunk to reach for himself, just wanted Zayn to fuck him forever, wanted to feel the ache of his cock forever, even as Harry felt a small, sick thrill of pleasure go through his body at the idea of using his own tears as lube to get off. Harry's whole life was a series of small, sick pleasures at this point, though, and it felt like winning a bit of dignity back when Zayn bit down on Harry's shoulder, whispering Harry's first name around the meat of flesh.

Harry was still hard when Zayn pulled out of him, tossing the used condom into a wastebasket on the side of the bed. Harry stood on wobbling feet, pulling his boxers back on, adjusting himself briefly, and went back to his own room, ignoring Zayn's calls to stay, to talk, to get off there, or whatever. Harry couldn't be assed to listen. Harry instead locked his door, kicking his boxers back off, and passed out on top of the covers.

 

The first time Zayn and Harry got high together, they had known each other for something like six months. It wasn't a thing they had planned. Zayn was over at Harry's house – their new hangout spot, really, because it was always awkward trying to get off in the library – when Niall had called and said he had something for Harry. “You're the best, Niall,” Harry had laughed, letting Niall into the kitchen and introducing Niall to Zayn before handing over a few hundred to pay for what Niall liked to call Harry's “care package” – Addy, X, and coke, all neatly wrapped up in a nondescript gift box because Harry loved presents.

“Is that an early birthday thing?” Zayn asked warily, eating an apple he had pulled off Harry's counter. “Most people don't pay for their own gifts.”

“Not exactly,” Harry answered. “Niall's my school's dealer.”

Zayn hummed and Harry felt like maybe he had done something wrong – said the wrong thing, fucked up what had otherwise been shaping up to be a normal afternoon. Zayn looked away, eyes resting on Harry's window, still eating his apple, juice dripping down the side of his hands. Harry wanted to lick it off, taste Zayn underneath it. Zayn was stingy with the pieces of himself he let Harry touch, so protective over himself and his feelings. Harry couldn't understand it, because he wanted Zayn to have all of him, didn't mind when Zayn was cruel or dismissive because at least it meant he was paying Harry some attention.

“I've never done anything besides smoke weed on the weekends sometimes,” Zayn said around a nervous laugh. “Always scared I would. Dunno. Get hooked and like. End up losing my scholarship or something.” Harry didn't know what to say, figured it was his turn to hum and look away. “Assumed drug habits were something only rich people could really afford to have.”

“I don't have a drug habit.” Harry thought it was true at the time.

Zayn raised an eyebrow but didn't push it, instead gesturing for Harry to open up his box. Zayn's fingers immediately reached for the cocaine, a small frown on his face as he ran his fingers over the small baggy. “What's it like?”

Harry licked his lips, eyes fixated on Zayn's face, taking in every detail. Zayn, who was resolutely avoiding Harry's gaze. “It's the most intense high I've ever had,” Harry answered. “Feels so good. Like – like that moment right before the first drop on a roller-coaster. Like right before you come, when your feet squeeze and you can't even see. Everything goes blurry but it's sharp, too, crisp. You feel so powerful, but vulnerable. It's all contradictory.” Zayn looked up and Harry had to stop himself from pulling Zayn in, just to feel what his heartbeat was thrumming like in this moment, had to stop himself from saying, “The high feels like being around you and the comedown feels like when you leave.” Harry took a deep breath, instead, whispered slinky slow, “I could show you, if you want.”

Zayn opened his mouth and closed it before looking up at Harry, their eyes locking. “Just one line, yeah?”

It was like digging his own grave, like writing the inscription on his own tombstone. Because one line turned into two turned into three turned into laughing into each other's mouths and Zayn sucking Harry off in the living room while some rerun of Rugrats was on, Zayn grinning with dilated pupils and Harry's come on his chin.

 

Harry woke up to his phone blaring at approximately way too early in the morning (eleven AM), so Harry grabbed it and turned it off, uselessly trying to go back to sleep before grumbling and taking a shower. Harry saw the other boys in the kitchen when he finally emerged from his bedroom, basketball shorts slung low on his hips and sunglasses shoved onto his face because he had a migraine, and even though it was about noon by then, it was still _way too fucking early_ , so Harry grabbed a Corona out of the fridge and went out back, knowing that Zayn was going to follow him wherever he tried to hide.

“Why did you even ask us to all come out to the middle of fucking nowhere if you're not going to talk to us?” Zayn asked, his own bottle of beer in hand. He wasn't wearing a shirt, either, too warm out for modesty, had some tank top thrown over his shoulder, already looking tanner than yesterday, looking so good that Harry felt eager and needy for his touch even though nothing good had ever really come from it.

Harry didn't bother responding, though. Things were way too complicated in his head and it was far too early – Harry hadn't even crushed his morning pills yet. Plus it wasn't like Harry was avoiding _all_ of the boys. The one he wanted to avoid was the one who wasn't going to let him get away with it.

“You ever gonna talk to _me_ , Styles?” Zayn sounded nervous, words catching around a laugh that they both knew was put on. “You know – ” Another forced laugh, a lick of lips that Harry traced with a starving gaze, even against his better judgment. “You know how much I missed you.”

Harry hummed, entire body itching for coke, something, anything to help with his shitty fucking mood, to help him soar over this entire situation. His mind was screaming “Abort, abort!” but his heart wanted to hear Zayn out, wanted to slink into the comforting lies Zayn had been feeding Harry since the first fucking day they met four years ago, wanted Zayn to pull taut the cords he had dug into Harry's heart. Wanted to believe that he was more to Zayn than a familiar body and another hole to slip his dick into on occasion.

Zayn reached out, hands curling around Harry's shoulder, the desperation there, even in his fingertips. Although desperate for what – Harry couldn't even begin to fathom. Zayn had already fucked Harry, first night of the trip and everything, knew that Harry would be available whenever the hell Zayn wanted him. Zayn didn't even have to _ask_ , Harry was just that self-destructive. Hadn't Harry always been? So why did he need Harry to _talk_? Harry would only say things Zayn didn't want to hear, inconvenient soliloquies in old drafty houses.

Zayn's breath was warm, smelling of cheap beer and breakfast sandwiches when he murmured, “You know how much I fucking love you, right, babe?”

It was such a lie that Harry's heart laughed right along with his brain on that one and Harry stood, hiding out in his room where he took some Percocet and willed himself to sleep.

 

The thing about Harry and Zayn was that things probably wouldn't've been so bad had Harry never introduced Zayn to drugs, had Harry not made it their _thing_ , something for them to share, an activity to make their own. Without it – well. They probably would've just naturally fizzled out, the way friends with benefits situations tend to. And it would've hurt, but Harry would've moved on, would've found someone else, would've tried to be a good person for whoever that someone else was, more careful with his heart now that he knew what lost love could do to it. But because of drugs, now – now they had a legitimate reason to cling to each other. Because Harry was Zayn's drug connection, and Harry could only really coast when Zayn was at his side, running greedy hands along Harry's ribcage as though Zayn actually wanted him.

The delusions, the daydreams, the false hopes – they all fed Harry's life. If it was so bad for Harry emotionally, it couldn't possibly make him feel _this good_ , not when they were at Louis' birthday slash Christmas party, coke on Harry's gums and Zayn's pants around his knees, Zayn bent over the bathroom counter as Harry spread him apart, one hand holding him open and the other pressing hard against Zayn's lower back, tonguing at Zayn's hole until Zayn was incoherent, tears bubbling at his eyes. Couldn't make him feel so good when Zayn made him strip in Niall's parents' bedroom, the light bulb flickering with the last gasps of energy, Zayn tying the sleeves of his shirt around Harry's wrists like makeshift handcuffs, spanking Harry raw before fucking Harry without a rubber, both of them so fucked up that they hadn't even realized it until Zayn nutted deep inside of Harry. Harry couldn't sit right for days at a time, would daydream about Zayn during his AP US History class and run delicate fingers over the love bites Zayn left on the inside of his wrists, like track marks, almost, but in the best sort of way – reminders, little hello's from someone he loved.

Life didn't even feel real, and Harry legitimately started to think that they were dating, that they were _in love_ , that they were making something for themselves. Harry believed every fucking lie, every half-truth, every murmured, “I love you, babe,” when Zayn was about to come, believed Zayn when he said that he would visit Harry all of the time regardless of where he was going to end up for college. Harry eagerly swallowed the pills that sowed his own destruction, and Zayn was the most convincing of liars.

 

Harry woke up late the next morning, ate lunch with Niall and Liam, and went back outside to take a nap when Zayn found him again. Harry knew without looking at him that Zayn was rolling, and it felt like such a cliché that Harry scoffed and croaked out, “I fucking hate you,” before thinking any better of it, before remembering that he wasn't talking to Zayn because there was nothing to say.

Zayn ran skittish fingers over Harry's hand, murmured, “ _Babe_ ,” in that sad, needy way of his that Harry never knew how to say “no” to, and Harry let Zayn pull him up from the park bench he had flung his body across. It didn't feel fair, none of it. Harry wasn't wearing sunglasses, had nothing to hide behind besides his demons and Zayn was wearing dark, Gucci frames that reflected Harry’s own desolation back to him. Harry was painfully sober, entire body aching, and Zayn wasn't. Harry tried to snort and fuck the memory of Zayn out of his system and Zayn always found the back alleys and shortcuts back in, even after everything – after getting married and not even thinking it was an important enough detail to send Harry _a text_ about it, after flying out to New York out of the blue and expecting for Harry to just fall into bed with him (Harry did). Harry knew he was a barely functioning fucking addict, to powder and pills and relationships that made him crazy, and Zayn somehow had managed to just be Zayn – smart, cool, fabulous Zayn. It wasn't fucking fair. Not one bit of it.

 

It was March of Harry’s junior year when Niall pulled Harry aside one day after their Bay Area Cinema seminar. Harry wasn’t sure whether he or Niall were actually friends back then – Niall was friends with everyone, and Harry was too, kinda, in that fleeting, superficial way people orbit each other in high school – but it hardly mattered, really, when Niall smiled at Harry, all white teeth and bleach blonde hair, saying, “I’ve asked around about your boy, you know.”

Harry shrugged, pulling his backpack on. Harry had started inviting Zayn along to parties thrown by other Lick-Wilmerding kids, not exactly expecting anything while simultaneously desperately hoping Zayn would show. The amazing thing was that Zayn _did_ , more often than not, in leather jackets and with hair coiffed to perfection. He and Louis Tomlinson, captain of the varsity soccer team, had become fast friends, same with Liam Payne, who used to be this kid everyone picked on in middle school until he filled out and started to box. Everyone knew Zayn as Harry’s boyfriend even though it wasn’t true, wasn’t something they had even _talked_ about, but neither Harry nor Zayn had told anyone differently. So. Might as well had been the truth.

“You did, huh?” Harry replied noncommittally.

“Yeah, know loads of kids at UHS,” Niall answered. This was not surprising in the least – just by virtue of being a drug dealer, Niall knew _everyone_ in San Francisco, up in Marin and down the Peninsula. “One of my best friends from middle school goes there, too. Smart girl, name is Leigh Anne. So imagine my surprise when she tells me that there’s no way you could be dating that Malik kid, not when he’s already got a longtime girlfriend.”

Harry frowned, not even knowing what to say. "What do you mean?"

“Exactly what I said,” Niall answered, not at all unkindly. Just brusquely. Matter of fact. “Be careful, yeah? Dunno what he's been telling you, but he's got a reputation.”

That didn't mean anything. Harry had a reputation, too. Someone could've been lying, even. A million and one excuses all to resist acknowledging one cardinal truth. Harry nodded and moved onto his next class, already trying to put the warning out of his head.

 

If Harry was capable of thinking linearly, he might say that the story went something like this:

Boy meets boy.

Boy gets high, fucks in friends' basements, and gives his heart away, and then gets high some more.

And that was it. There wasn't really much character development, or exposition, or anything that added up to good storytelling. Just a lot of fucking stupidity, money spent on drugs and therapy.

But Harry couldn't exactly think linearly anymore, just in emotions and fragmented memories and colors, so when Harry let Zayn pull him back to his bedroom, Harry couldn't help but flash back to the time Zayn came to visit completely unannounced in New York, in the middle of Harry's freshman year, a golden wedding band glistening on his left ring finger.

The whole memory was bathed in gold, really.

Harry had been trying to cut down on his coke intake, was feeling irritable and nauseated as his body fought him tooth and nail on that point, and seeing Zayn standing on the corner of East 2nd and Bowery outside of his residence hall, a duffel bag in hand, was certainly not fucking helping.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you.” With a shrug, as though it was nothing to fly across the country to surprise someone, looking every inch the Californian stoner – beanie, tank top, gym shorts and fucking Rainbow sandals, arms covered in ink that Harry didn't recognize, didn't remember, including a rendering of the girl Zayn was now married to. Harry didn't even bother wondering where she thought Zayn had jetted off to, just as Harry pointedly didn't wonder which of his friends told Zayn where he lived and encouraged Zayn in this obvious fucking attempt to try and win Harry back. Harry had _heard_ _things_ – that the marriage was already falling apart, that Zayn missed Harry, that Zayn realized he had made a mistake and was willing to do whatever it took to make it better. Harry _heard things_ because Zayn texted him every fucking day, operating on some sort of hellish clockwork, sent messages to Harry on Facebook until Harry got fed up and deactivated his account. Harry hoped Zayn heard things, too – that Harry was doing great in all of his classes, that he was happy in New York, that Harry could live without Zayn fucking everything up for him, thanks. None of it was true, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, it'd become reality.

“Fucking ridiculous,” Harry mumbled to himself but he didn't turn Zayn away, of course he didn't, instead bringing him up to his studio on the third floor. Zayn whistled lowly as he looked around, walking to Harry's windows and throwing down his duffel bag, peaking out at the street below. Harry put on the tea kettle and stood in his kitchen, drumming his nails on the counter top and staring blankly at his mugs until Zayn came back, resting his head on Harry's shoulder, lips brushing collarbone, their hands intertwining without Harry even realizing he had sought Zayn's fingers out.

“You deleted your Facebook.”

Harry hummed as the kettle started to whistle. Harry barely moved in order to turn the stove off, Zayn a comforting weight against his chest. “Didn't feel like having one anymore.”

“You haven't been answering my texts. Didn't feel like having me anymore, either?”

Harry scoffed. “Shouldn't you be asking yourself that question?”

Zayn nipped at Harry's neck, digging his thumb into Harry's hipbone. Sure gestures when his voice was anything but. “It doesn't mean anything.” Harry never knew what to make out of the fact that they could understand each other without saying anything close to what they really meant.

“To you, maybe. I never signed on to be someone's fall-back fuck buddy. I could've made an eHarmony account for that.”

Harry felt Zayn's frown against his skin. “You're nothing like that to me, Harry. You know that.”

Harry didn't _know_ anything, except for the fact that it certainly wasn't his face inked onto Zayn's bicep. “Who helped you come out here?”

“Nobody. I came out here because I wanted to see you – wanted to show you that I'm here for you, will always be here for you.”

Harry sighed even as Zayn skipped his fingers underneath Harry's sweats. This was all so fucking predictable – Harry was equally parts bored and depressed. “It was Louis, wasn't it?” Louis probably gave Zayn the cash, now that Harry thought about it. Louis was always frivolous with his inheritance – would give friends money to enable dares. Hell, Louis had once said he'd give Harry five hundred bucks to let Zayn come on his face, take a picture, and send it to Perrie (one of Louis' crueler dares – Harry never did it, even though five hundred could've helped quite a lot with his not-a-drug-habit). Niall would've told Zayn to fuck off, nicely of course, but the message would've been received, and Liam and Harry weren't quite as close as they had once been, but Liam's strict moral compass would've still prevented him from even contemplating helping Zayn out. Louis believed that true love conquers all, believed that stalking and flowers and “I'm sorry, now come here and sit on my cock,” made up for just about everything. Zayn and Louis were startling similar, once you ignored the fact that Louis had a big mouth and Zayn never quite knew how to string together important sentences whenever it really mattered. Harry couldn't deal with either of them.

“C'mon, Harry – ”

“I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to be getting out of all of this,” Harry said, forcing out a laugh. “Are you apologizing? Where are your flowers? Or are you just here for sex? Because you've got a wife for that.”

Zayn stepped back, face cloudy. Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, really. Had to remind himself he hadn't even done anything wrong (acknowledging the elephant in the room wasn't a sin, even if it made him uncomfortable, even if his hands shook and his vision swam), so he walked back over to the stove, taking the kettle off the burner and pouring hot water into the two cups he had set aside. Harry let the bag steep before turning back to Zayn.

“I never wanted things to be like this, Harry. You've gotta understand that.”

“Doesn't matter what you wanted,” Harry said with a shrug. “Because this is what we've got.”

Zayn pursed his lips in a frown and Harry let his eyes wander back to the hot mug of tea.

“I don't want to come out here for nothing, Harry. I wanna – I wanna fix this.”

“But you did come out here for nothing,” Harry answered, eyes unfocused. “If you'd've talked to me before coming out, I would've told you. I'm doing fine without you.”

“You can lie to Louis and Niall and Liam about how you're doing but you can't lie to me,” Zayn said. “I know you're a wreck. I am, too.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Harry was stupid, but he wasn't that oblivious. They weren't star-crossed lovers. There was nothing standing in the way of them being together save the important detail that Zayn didn't feel as intensely for Harry what Harry felt for Zayn. It wasn't that kind of story, and for Zayn to pretend like it was, as though his hands had been forced in any sort of way – Harry was over it. Had been for a while.

“If I want to lie to you, that's my prerogative,” Harry mumbled. “You didn't exactly give me a lot of options to run with.”

“How do you mean?”

“How was I supposed to react to you getting married?” Harry demanded. “Really. Because apparently me getting pissed is not an acceptable response for you.”

Zayn leaned against the counter of Harry's tiny kitchen, beautiful face turned up in a scowl. “If you would just let me explain – ”

“What's there to even explain?” Harry interrupted. “You love her, yeah? Otherwise you wouldn't have done it. Or, ooh, did you think she was a pregnant? Was she going to leave you unless you made it for real? What important back story could I _possibly_ be missing out on?”

“I was scared, Harry,” Zayn hissed. “I was scared and I chose the worst fucking option. But please – just let me make this right, yeah?”

“No.”

“Harry – ”

“That's not how you treat someone you love,” Harry said, hands shaking. “I'm sorry, but it's not. And if you care about me so much, if you love me so fucking much and this is how it feels, I don't _want_ it, not when it feels like coming off of fucking heroin.”

Zayn tried to take another step back, further away from Harry, but he couldn't – the kitchen was too small, there was nowhere to hide.

Harry drank his tea.

 

Sometimes Harry felt like time was bending, like Harry was straddling different points, past present future blurring into inconsequential meaninglessness. That was a theory, right? All time existing at once? Zayn would know. Zayn had words, explanations for everything except for the things that Harry really wanted to know.

Zayn was also cutting lines on a compact mirror in his bedroom. It was so fucking hot and Harry was sitting in his underwear on the bed. It didn't really get hot in San Francisco, and it wasn't balmy. They had to be in Mendocino – so it was now, the present. Not the past. Not New York, not San Francisco, even if the scene might as well have been from then – seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, it didn't matter, apparently, Harry was still doing the same shit, and Zayn was Zayn. Harry got Zayn that compact, too, the gold filigree one. Zayn was always checking his reflection in storefront windows, in his phone's camera, endlessly fussing with his hair as though he wasn't the most beautiful person Harry had ever seen. “Pretty something for my something pretty,” Harry had said, trite and sentimental, always sappy where Zayn was concerned. And Zayn had smiled and accepted the gift with elegant fingers that he would later crook inside of Harry, teeth sharp where they nipped at Harry's neck.

But that was then and this was now, Zayn finishing his handiwork with a grin, grabbing a straw from off the bedside table and handing it to Harry before carding his hands through the long curls at the back of Harry's neck. “I like your hair this long,” Zayn mumbled as Harry forced the straw up his left nostril, plugging the right with his index finger and taking the first hit, the force of it causing Harry to cough, Zayn's fingers tightening as he grinned. “'S nice.”

Harry didn't say that he grew his hair out long because keeping it short made him think about being seventeen and being Zayn's, and that now he also had a reason to keep it long, too, knowing that Zayn liked it. Harry's life was one circular Catch-22. “Thanks,” Harry answered thickly, vision swimming briefly. “You cut a thick line, bro.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, reaching across Harry to take a long gulp from his water bottle. Harry knew that Zayn hated it when Harry called him “bro.” “You don't call someone your bro when you've tasted their come,” he had said once, but Harry kept with it, just because he wanted to piss Zayn off. “You can snort the other line, too,” Zayn said. “Cut them both for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn answered, licking his lips. “Wanna do some off your back like how we used to.”

“Like we used to with Perrie, you mean,” Harry said, and the memory was so bitter Harry could feel bile rising in his throat. Zayn seemed to realize it at the same time – what he was saying, what he was asking, how Harry was freaking the fuck out – backpedaling so quickly it made Harry's head spin. Harry just ignored him, ignored the white noise, wanted to drown Zayn out with drugs, thrusting the straw back into his nostril so hard it hurt, snorting the second bump and squeezing his eyes shut. Harry hummed, leaning back against the bed and tapping his fingers against Zayn's hip. “Why don't you put some music on or something?”

Zayn nodded apologetically, getting up off the bed to grab his phone. “What do you want?”

“Dunno,” Harry mumbled. “What do you and Perrie listen to when you're fucking?”

Zayn's face was blank, but Harry could tell that he was barely refraining from scowling. “You know Perrie and I are divorced, Harry.”

“Don't know anything,” Harry answered with a shrug. “Just hear things sometimes. But I don't _know_ anything. And so what if you two are divorced? Divorced people fuck sometimes, too. One more for the road, thanks for the memories.” He knew he was being mean, he knew it. It was one of the consequences sometimes, one of the end results of the compounds swimming through his bloodstream. Arrogance and cruelty.

Zayn lifted his own shoulders but it was tense, jerky. “The only person I want to fuck is you.”

“Just cuz you don't wanna fuck her since she broke your heart or whatever doesn't mean you can't or won't,” Harry pointed out. “I never wanted her but I still ate her out, used to love the way you watched me do it, yeah?”

“You're trying to rile me up.” Zayn said it almost like he was just realizing it.

Harry grinned, waving his arms. “I'm just talking, aren't I? Not trynna do anything.”

“No, you're trying to punish me,” Zayn answered. “Was 'sorry' not enough?”

Like “Sorry” could ever be fucking enough, not after everything. Maybe in an alternate universe where Harry was even fucking dumber than in this one, but Harry wasn't sure that was possible, wasn't sure there was a dimension where he could've made worse decisions than the ones he made here. Either way, it didn't matter. This wasn't kindergarten. People never forgave and forgot. People ran fingers over their healing scars and resolved to watch out for the signs next time, snapping at heels and squeezing throats.

“You never answered my question though,” Harry continued, skimming his hands along the inside of his thigh and watching as Zayn licked his lips unconsciously. “What do you and Perrie listen to when you fuck?”

“We don't.”

“When you did?”

“Harry – ”

“Did you make an R&B playlist?” Harry asked, his fingertips feeling like live wires against his skin. Magnified reactions. Zap, like the tattoo on Zayn's arm. “Smooth jams for your missus?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Zayn sounded small, tortured. Harry couldn't stop smiling.

“Did she make you listen to all of those rock songs you hate? Wanted you to fuck her ass to some Aerosmith?”

“Harry.”

Harry laughed and it felt like rolling rocks of tension downhill, into lakes, watching them splish-splash from shore. Harry wasn't sure if that made sense, but he wasn't even really on Earth anymore, he was elsewhere, there, somewhere, so he felt weightless, even though Harry was pretty sure Zayn said something about gravity in space once and sensations of weightlessness having to do with the way gravity pulls on Earth versus in space . . . how come Zayn always used to talk about fucking science when he was high . . .

“Remember that time my senior year when I got us E and you wouldn't shut up about coming in space,” Harry said, his smile slipping a little. “It was at that stupid 80s party Louis had. a-ha was playing – a-ha and then Madonna and then Michael Jackson. You got so excited about Billie Jean, and you got jizz all on my shoes.”

“Yeah, those dumb brown boots,” Zayn answered wistfully and he was so far away. “Do you remember what else I was talking about that night?” Harry frowned, screwing his face up in thought before he found that _no_ , he couldn't. It was so long ago, three years ago. It probably hadn't been important, but Harry never remembered anything important, either, anymore, anyway. “I said I wanted to snort a line off your ass. Remember? It was so ridiculous – best idea we ever had. But we didn't have any coke. All you had was fucking E.”

“Yeah, cuz Niall said I needed to stop going through my stash so fucking fast,” Harry said, fragments of memories stitching back together. “No wonder I did – you were taking halfsies on everything. And we said that the next time we'd hook up, you'd do it.” And it'd never happened, because the next few times they fucked around it was with Perrie, Zayn feeding lies to both of them about the seriousness of each relationship, and then Zayn and Perrie had their shotgun ceremony and Harry was too busy having a mental breakdown and getting shuttled to therapists' offices to remember children's vows in friends' bathrooms.

“Wanna do it now,” Zayn replied. “If you'll let me.”

Harry was jaded, didn't think he could ever say he was capable of fully trusting Zayn again, but Zayn would always be able to have whatever he wanted from Harry, and that was probably the saddest part of whatever this was. Whatever it was they were doing, clinging to some shit they both should've let go of four years ago, Zayn's hands on Harry's hips feeling pillowy soft as they pulled Harry's briefs off. Harry turned onto his stomach, feeling open and bare, bringing his hand to his own hair and tugging while Zayn tiptoed his fingers over Harry's ass, pouring a line's worth onto one of Harry's cheeks.

“Hold still, yeah?” and Harry hummed, wishing he could turn to watch Zayn as he smoothed out a line with his AmEx. Harry hiccuped a gasp when he felt the edge of a rolled bill against his skin, feet flexing when Zayn took the bump.

“Don't waste any of it,” Harry said, whole body on fire, heat and exploding pressure. Zayn mumbled something, probably an agreement, and then Harry felt Zayn's tongue against his skin, licking up the residue, sucking, biting. Harry didn't know when he got hard but he was now, dick trapped underneath himself, already starting to leak against Zayn's bedspread. Harry groaned as he felt a slap, Zayn's solid hand coming to rest on Harry's other ass cheek, smoothing out the pain before Zayn spanked him again and again.

By the time Zayn turned Harry over, back onto his front, Harry was babbling, barely coherent. “Please” and “I want” and “ _Zayn_.”

Zayn hardly seemed any better off, cock a hard line in his own shorts, eyes blown, lips already plump. “Wanna suck you off,” Zayn announced and Harry just nodded, sitting up and getting on his knees on the bed. Harry's eyes almost rolled back into his head when Zayn settled in between Harry's legs, resting on his belly, and wrapped one hand around the base of Harry's dick and braced the other against Harry's thigh. They were both so fucked up, Harry feeling on the edge and Zayn hadn't even done anything, really, just had his eyes closed and was sucking lightly at the head of Harry's cock, teasing touches, little shoots of pleasure, before he swallowed Harry in.

Zayn was always so good – Harry wasn't sure how he had pushed that out of his mind, how he had forgotten. So beautiful, scruff down his jaw as he hallowed his cheeks and sucked Harry in, hand working over what he didn't wanna deepthroat. Harry grunted and let Zayn go for it, content to watch him forever, no rush, no hurry, just two boys in a bed, spit and precome dripping out of Zayn's mouth, lips fucked out and puffy. The drugs were amplifying Zayn's every move, Harry could feel the pleasure ramping up but he didn't want it to end. “Close,” Harry croaked out, pushing at Zayn's shoulder. “Don't wanna – ”

Zayn pulled off, squeezing at the base of Harry's cock and ignoring Harry's pained whimper. “Wanna ride you,” Zayn said, hazel eyes dark. “Please, wanna ride you bare.” Zayn begged, words forming around gasps. “Promise I'm clean.”

“I can't make the same promise,” Harry said, knowing how Zayn, or _anyone_ , really, would take it, was banking on a strong reaction. Anticipating the stillness in Zayn's hands, the disquiet vacancy in his eyes. It was a fucked up, cruel thing to say, and not even _true_ on top of it, but Harry felt as though Zayn deserved it, felt something akin to contentment creep down his spine and settle in his gut.

“You're an asshole,” Zayn croaked, pushing away from Harry and wrapping defensive arms around himself. “You know that? I know you're fucking with me – you'd never do anything to purposefully put your health at risk, or mine. You put everything that's wrong between us on me, but you're a dick, too. It wasn't _just_ me, okay?”

“Not fucking with you. Just. Well.” Harry paused, took a moment to catch his breath. “I'm sorry. It's not true. I would never, well – ”

“Yeah, I know – you fucked half of Manhattan, everyone knows,” Zayn hissed. “Niall said as much. Doesn't mean anything – I would never think any differently of you.”

“Doesn't it though?”

Zayn shook his head in disbelief. “Do you want it to?”

“It means _something_. S'all I'm saying.” Harry flopped back against the pillows, feeling simultaneously wired and exhausted. Life was so much simpler when Harry could delude himself into thinking sex could mean something. Trying to resign himself to the reality that all of the sex Zayn and Harry had had meant nothing – that was harder, so fucking difficult Harry wanted to scream. “Can we just. Like. Sit. For a while?”

“We can do whatever you like,” Zayn answered softly, sadly. “Everything. Nothing.” Harry closed his eyes, frustrated and too ramped up to sleep.

 

Harry had tried to pretend as though Niall's warning wasn't weighing on him. Tried to pretend as though Niall was just hating or something, but why would he? They weren't friends really at the time, but Niall was always nice. So Harry started doing his own asking around, started his own little investigation.

It didn't take long for Harry to find her Facebook page, a blonde girl with too much makeup and cheap clothes, a fake Louis Vuitton in her profile picture. Harry hated himself for noticing, for judging, but also hated her for existing, and hated himself for being _so stupid_. “In a relationship with Zayn Malik.” Harry didn't even know Zayn had a Facebook – he always shrugged and said social media wasn't his thing when Harry had asked. Harry clicked out of the page and couldn't sleep.

Harry and Zayn were hanging out at Washington Square Park in North Beach the next day, a cigarette tucked behind Zayn's ear. Harry couldn't remember when Zayn started to smoke, but he always looked good with something in his mouth. Harry wondered who introduced him to the habit, who introduced Zayn to all of the little new things that kept Harry on his toes, wondered how many people around the city Zayn was stringing along. “Who's Perrie?” Harry asked.

Zayn frowned, a slice of pizza in hand. “One of my middle school friends. Why?”

“Niall doesn't think she's just a friend. He says his friend Leigh Anne says you and Perrie are dating,” Harry answered, his voice level even as his own hand shook. “That you two have been since like ninth grade.”

Zayn turned, looked at Harry evenly. “And what do you think?”

“What's it matter what I think?” Harry asked. “I just wanna know whether you're leading me on.”

Zayn licked his lips and placed his slice of pizza back onto his paper plate, cleaning his hands off on a napkin before taking Harry's face in between his fingers. “Would never lead you on, Harry. She's just a friend, I promise.”

“You can bring her around if you want,” Harry answered, knocking Zayn's hands off his face and turning away, a slow aching feeling spreading out from his heart. “If she's your girlfriend and you want to introduce her to your new friends. Louis and Liam would probably wanna meet her.”

“Harry – ”

“You can lie to everyone else but you can't lie to me,” Harry mumbled. “You lick your lips too much when you're not being honest.”

 

Harry hadn't even noticed that Zayn, Liam, and Louis weren't in the house until Niall dragged him out of Zayn's bed and made Harry get dressed while he scrambled up some eggs in the kitchen. If Niall was wondering why Harry was passed out and naked there instead of in his own bedroom, he didn't ask.

“Where's everyone?” Harry asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and peering blearily at Niall once he finally made it down to the kitchen.

“Sent them out for groceries,” Niall answered with a sigh, setting a plate in front of Harry. “Needed to talk to you without all of them around.”

Harry grumbled something unintelligible and began to eat. Niall watched him silently for a few minutes before he shook his head, shoulders sinking.

“You can't keep living like this, Haz,” Niall said softly. “You can't just invite us out here and then snort yourself to death in front of us. We're – well. _I'm_ staging an intervention.”

Harry barked out a laugh, dropping his fork onto his plate and scrubbing over his face with dirty hands. “Nah, I know. This isn't the first intervention I've had.” Niall frowned and Harry couldn't help himself, giggling at Niall's bewildered expression. “I dropped out of NYU. Well – I took a Leave of Absence, should I be able to get my shit together within the next two years. During finals I got really fucked up, drank so much I bashed my head open in a stairwell. My parents told me I have to get clean, get my shit together and stop snorting their money, and they're right, yeah? So I'm going to rehab this fall. But I wanted to get away for a little bit and yeah, I've been on a bit of a bender. I'm sorry I invited you all out to watch.”

“Harry,” Niall started, and his eyes were so sad. Harry never expected to see this face on someone who used to deal to him.

“Hey, no, don't feel sorry for me,” Harry mumbled. “Please don't feel sorry for me.”

Niall nodded, wiping at his eyes and turning away from Harry. “Have you told Zayn?”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. “What's there to tell?”

“You invited him out here for a reason, right?” Niall asked. “And he came out for a reason.”

“I'm not getting clean for his sake,” Harry hissed.

Niall nodded, taking Harry's empty plate away. “I know, and that's a great thing. But maybe he deserves to know? So he can have an example – maybe do the same, yeah?”

Harry watched Niall and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. No commitment. Maybe. Maybe not. Niall smiled though, reading something into the movement that Harry didn't understand, before reaching over to ruffle Harry's hair.

 

The first time Harry met Perrie, it was at some party in Nob Hill. Harry was already drunk by the time he showed up, but Harry woke up at Louis' house the next morning with blonde hair all over his shirt and Zayn's hickies all over his chest. It probably hadn't been too hard for Zayn to convince Harry that a threesome was a great idea. Like a broken record, a hymn long committed to memory. Harry always did whatever Zayn wanted.

 

Zayn, Liam, and Louis came back from the store but Harry had already relocated back to Zayn's bedroom, determinedly going through all of Zayn's things. Harry wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he found Zayn's old wedding ring in his backpack and it took everything in Harry not to flush it down the toilet. Instead, Harry sat on the bedspread and placed the ring on the bed next to him before nicking one of Zayn's cigarettes and lighting it up.

When Zayn came back, he was sweaty and smelled like outside. Harry didn't want anything to do with him.

“It's funny, isn't it?” Harry said, even though there was nothing to be laughing about, nothing humorous about the situation he had trapped himself into with Zayn. He wasn't even sure if Zayn had said something to him, wasn't sure what the hell they were trying to do anymore. “You told me you didn't need saving, but I'm the one that did all along. And now look at me – all of the times I shoved my hand out, begging for your help and you did _nothing_ . You didn't want to be used, so you used me and discarded me, just like I said I would _never_ do to you.”

“That's not fair, Harry,” Zayn protested. “I never used you. You know how much I cared about you.”

 _Cared_ , past tense. _Used_ , too, like Zayn wasn't still laying claim to Harry's body every fucking night. But Harry let him, would always let Zayn in, would carve his chest open and remove his own bleeding insides should Zayn ask. Fuck, Harry's heart hurt, and it was sad that he hoped it was from heartbreak and not because he had drank too much, smoke too much, did too many lines, was dying, because Zayn would probably let Harry's lungs stop before he ever admitted that his actions might have something to do with the wreck of a human Harry had become. And they say rich people don't have problems.

“You didn't use me?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow. “You didn't take advantage of my feelings, you didn't laugh about me to your UHS friends?” Harry's voice was small. This hurt _so much_ , finally regurgitating all of the sick he had shoved down his throat over the past few years. “You didn't fuck that girl and then get married to her behind my back? That isn't using someone? What the fuck would _you_ call it?”

“I loved her, Harry!” Zayn yelled. “I still do.” A little smaller.

There were no words. No. Fucking. Words. And Harry was dumb to ever think otherwise.

Harry should've never come back to California. To think Zayn might still want him? Harry had lied to Niall – he wasn't getting clean for himself. He was getting clean because Harry was as stupid at twenty-one as he had been at seventeen.

“Go home, Zayn,” Harry said, defeated. Everything in him wanted to go and hide, wanted to crawl under blankets and pretend like the world only extended as far as that comforting darkness. He wanted to wake up and be fifteen again, wished there was a time machine he could hop into to warn himself to not be fooled by a beautiful face and a warm smile. “Call someone, ask Louis – hitchhike, I don't care. But go home. It was a mistake to think we could work _anything_ out.”

“Harry – ”

But Harry left, slamming the door and and burying his face in his own pillows, face red and mottled as he cried.

 

“You can't keep acting as though I'm the reason for all of your problems,” Zayn had huffed out once. In New York, maybe. They were naked and sweaty, Harry's hair a tangled mess, and Harry had forgotten that the night before a girl had written her phone number on his arm in Sharpie. Zayn scratched at the digits as he spoke, face screwed up in a frown. Zayn had his fucking wife permanently inked on his arm and Harry wasn't treating his bicep like a clawing post. “Like we weren't both a mess before we found each other. Like I wasn't – like the person I am now has nothing to do with who you were.”

“Never said you were the reason for all of my problems.” Just most of them.

“Don't have to say it. I hear you think it.”

Harry wondered what else Zayn heard Harry think but didn't bother to acknowledge. He hummed and got up to get something to drink.

 

Harry woke up and Zayn was in his bed. Harry didn't bother to ask why or how, just pushed himself off of the mattress and left the room to ask Niall whether he was up for cutting this trip a few days short.

 

Hours later, it had started to rain.

“In an alternate universe,” Harry started, licking his lips. Zayn and Harry were both fucked up, sitting on the porch together, and the thunderstorm lit up Zayn's eyes, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief. The whole house creaked. “In an alternate universe do you think we're happy?”

“Like multiverse?” Zayn asked, tilting his head to look at Harry.

“Dunno. Is that the word for it?”

“Yeah,” Zayn answered. “I'm happy with you in this one. Whenever we're together – doesn't matter what we're doing. Even when you're yelling at me, lying at me to get back at me. I'm happy with you.”

Harry felt warmth spread through his limbs, but the laugh that escaped from his mouth was hollow. Maybe Harry wasn't capable of happiness in any universe, no matter how much he wanted to submerge himself into the feeling, would spend eternities chasing empty highs, silly ways to trick his brain into thinking he was all right. “But in another universe, did you choose me? Instead of marrying Perrie, going through all of that bullshit. Instead of wasting those years. In another universe did you choose me?”

“Doesn't matter,” Zayn replied, bringing his hands to run over Harry's. “I'm choosing you in this one.”

Harry knew he was stupid to hope, but he had always been stupid. Naive. Optimistic. So he smiled and coasted through the high with Zayn by his side.

 

If Harry had ever bothered to ask, had ever found the liquid courage, ridden his bullish high and made the words real, Zayn might say that the story went something like this:

Boy meets boy and together they feel invincible. It is invigorating, exhilarating, and one of the boys forgets that his heart is nominally claimed in the heady spin of it all.

But once the two boys get high together, fucking in friends' basements and whispering words they only half understand the meaning of, one of the boys gets scared, makes a mistake (or two). But the boy knows he fucked up, knows that he just acted stupidly out of fear. So he does everything he can, tries and tries and tries even though he knows there's no reason for the other boy to forgive him. And he'll keep trying. Wouldn't ever give up now that he knows what it's like to lose to the house.

But Harry never bothered to ask.

And that was it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact but as much as I write about it, I've never actually tried cocaine.
> 
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